


a language of errors

by bummerang



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mutual Pining, Qrow's missing everything, Semi-Canon Compliant, but so is Ozpin so it's fair, two idiots in orbit missing each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bummerang/pseuds/bummerang
Summary: “It’s not impossible, you know. Your chances.”Qrow scoffs. “My chances. Tai, he keeps a bottle of pills just like this on him at all times. He thinks I don’t notice him popping them like chocolate chips.” He rubs his thumb in circles on the cap. “Whoever it is—it’s been happening for a long time.”“But how do you know it isn’t you?”“Why are you like eighty percent sure it is? Am I missing something here?”Written for the 2020 ozqrow secret santa.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Ozpin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	a language of errors

**Author's Note:**

> For Otterdoesart on tumblr~
> 
> I'm sorry it's late, but here it is! @_@ Thank you for your patience~ I kinda ran away with the prompt a bit, but I hope you like it anyway~

When Raven left Tai and Summer, she did it quietly. Mouse in the night kind of deal, but instead of crumbs, she’d left a whole damn baby.

When Raven made her first attempt to scare him into going back with her—well, she knows him best, after all.

_They’re giving you someplace to go back to, sure. But this war you and Summer are so bent on risking your stupid necks for, it’s going to take that away from you someday._

Between them, he’s always been the bigger risk taker and she’s always been the better planner. He just never realized the extent of these extremes until she left.

He gets to Patch an hour before dawn, resuming his coughing fit the moment he tries shifting out. The pain in his lungs is an instant fire. It catches him off guard, and he crashes into the mud in the clearing around Tai’s cabin, drenching his feathers and clothes. He lies there a while, propped on his elbows, breathing heavily while he wills the feathers to go away.

He doesn’t want to be here, but he also doesn’t want to raid a pharmacy.

The door opens almost immediately after the first knock and Qrow wonders if Tai saw him crashing in. Probably. He doesn’t look surprised at all. Tai only needs one look at the white petals crowding out of Qrow’s fist before gesturing him into the sitting room while he heads up the stairs.

Qrow is grateful for him; Tai can always be counted on to do first and ask later. Not that there’ll be much to ask. Tai already knows, has known even before Qrow showed up last week drunk out of his mind and raring to fight something that couldn’t be solved with a couple whacks of Harbinger.

-

Here’s the thing: on a scale of ‘one’ to _‘could you please not be like this,’_ Ozpin’s idiocy wildly vacillates between ‘endearing’ and ‘incoherent mouth-frothing’.

There are things that Qrow is meant to handle on his own. One of these is the occasional assassin sent from rival bandit clans. Nevermind that he’s cut ties to all members of his own except one-but-on-a-needs-must-basis, or that he never knows what sort of vendetta they have against him because it’s either an extremely old one or his name is still finding itself attached to certain activities—they just pop up sometimes, always with some two-bit monologue and flashy warning shots. Talented but inexperienced kids.

Except last week’s didn’t monologue, and probably had a good ten years on Qrow. He didn’t give himself away until he tried to stab Qrow in the gut with a fuck-all huge knife while walking past.

On any other day, Qrow might have died, or at least would have been extremely inconvenienced for a couple of weeks. His assassin was quick and ballsy; Qrow never would have expected an attack in the middle of a crowded street, and he wouldn’t have gotten his aura up before the blade was already halfway in. But his would-be murderer had decided to make his move on a Saturday. Not just any Saturday, but the second Saturday of the month, which happened to be Qrow’s self-designated day for kicking Ozpin into a shitty disguise and into town for lunch at a little restaurant with conveniently dim lighting for maximum hiding, and the smallest, most expensive serving of chocolate mousse he’s ever seen.

Qrow didn’t realize what was happening when Oz somehow went from trailing behind him to standing in front, when he swivel kicked what seemed like some random guy back into the alley he came from.

But it clicked when Oz swayed to his knees, and blood started dripping onto the sidewalk.

Qrow wasn’t proud of it, but his immediate instinct was to run after the asshole in the alley. The only thing that stopped him was Ozpin’s sudden grip on the hem of his shirt.

_Don’t. Please._

What else could Qrow have done but let the guy go?

-

“You should tell him,” Tai’s voice says softly from behind the couch, startling Qrow. A second later, a small plastic bottle drops on his lap. “You’ll have to play with the dose. Start small, okay?”

Qrow nods, trying to push away the memory of Ozpin’s trembling hand. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Qrow can feel him leaning against the back. “It can get way worse if you don’t say anything, you know.”

“If it gets to that point, I’ll have it cut out.”

Tai makes a skeptical noise. “It’s not really that easy. The surgery takes more than the stupid flower barfing from you. It’s like it takes away that very specific capability for care. It’s shit, but I wouldn’t want to stop missing Summer.”

Or Raven. But Qrow doesn’t feel like getting his nose broken today.

Tai’s hand lands on his shoulder with a hefty clap. “It’s not impossible, you know. Your chances.”

Qrow scoffs. “My _chances_. Tai, he keeps a bottle of pills just like this on him at all times. He thinks I don’t notice him popping them like chocolate chips.” He rubs his thumb in circles on the cap. “Whoever it is—it’s been happening for a long time.”

“But how do you know it isn’t you?”

“Why are _you_ like eighty percent sure it is? Am I missing something here?”

“Oz’s circle of close acquaintances isn’t exactly a big one. And out of those, you’re easily the closest. You spend at least half your free time with him, and you make _him_ free time.” He gives Qrow’s shoulder a punctuating poke. “You think that workaholic would let just _anybody_ do that?”

“None of that means he wants to suck face.”

“Just think about it. Oz isn’t the easiest person to get close to. You’re going to see him today, right?”

‘See’ is probably not the word for ‘vibrate with a roiling mixture of worry and anger and unrequited bullshittery’. Qrow wouldn’t be going if Glynda didn’t make him an errand boy; Oz is getting discharged tomorrow, and he needs some clothes not crusted in his own blood.

“You kinda are missing something,” Tai says as he leaves Qrow for the kitchen. “But you’re not the only one.”

—

Ozpin is still asleep when Qrow arrives. He looks better than he did last time Qrow was here. There’s some color in his face, and it isn’t just the deep ring of shadows around his eyes.

Qrow takes a seat on the cheap plastic chair by the bed, and he waits.

He hasn’t been visiting. He’s wanted to, just to see him, and maybe help him keep his mind off being stuck amidst all the antiseptic and noisy beeping. But part of Qrow feels like Ozpin deserves _all_ the noisy beeping; it’s not like he had to get in the way. Qrow didn’t need his help, and he certainly didn’t want it.

All he wants is for Ozpin to take better care. Is that really a lot to ask? Just—maybe don’t insert himself into avoidable danger? Don’t take on Qrow’s problems when they’re likely to get him hospitalized—or worse. Someday, that worse is going to happen, Qrow knows it. It’s the nature of the world, and the nature of Ozpin to get in the way of it.

“Has my bedsheet offended you in some way?”

Qrow looks up and finds Ozpin blinking curiously through half-lidded eyes. “What?”

“Your glare is too intense for nine in the morning.”

He stops glaring the glare he didn’t realize he’d been doing and places a small bag on Ozpin’s lap. “I brought you some clothes. And a croissant.”

“ _Real food_ ,” Ozpin says emphatically, and Qrow almost smiles.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better now that I have a source of butter.” But Ozpin only moves the bag to the side. Qrow notes the purposefully slow movement. “And you? Where are you headed next?”

Qrow blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I thought you might have already picked up your next mission.”

He doesn’t intend to go anywhere until he knows Ozpin can walk around at a pace that doesn’t suggest he’s recently taken a huge piece of metal in the stomach. “Why would I go anywhere now? You—” He hesitates. “I’ve been on missions back to back the last few weeks. Figured I should take a little break.”

“Oh. Good. That’s—good.” Ozpin smiles. It’s pretty weak, but it’s enough to give Qrow a sudden pressure just under his chest. “Visiting your family?”

Qrow nods, reaching into his pocket and trying to surreptitiously jiggle a pill into his hand. “Yeah, Tai’s trying to rope me into helping him build a treehouse. He’s never seen me build anything. Thing’s gonna be all rusted nails.”

“But you won’t be using rusted nails?”

“They’ll rust the moment I touch them.”

Ozpin laughs softly, and Qrow feels like his chest is about to kill him.

“Listen, I gotta get going,” he manages to say, but it sounds strained even to him. “Errands and shit.”

For a moment, it seems as if Ozpin is hesitating. “Yes, of course. Have fun with your deathtrap.”

Qrow snorts, and nearly coughs when a petal sticks against the back of his throat. “See you around, Oz.”

He stands quickly, almost stumbling in his urgency to flee.

—

Weeks pass, and Qrow doesn’t see him around, of course. It’s not really strange for him. He keeps up with people sporadically at best.

Last he heard, Ozpin is still banned from any activity more strenuous than turning on the coffee maker. Qrow doesn’t even risk hanging around Vale, in case Ozpin decides to go roaming for once. He stays on Patch, bouncing between the cabin and the village whenever a few too many unfortunate coincidences happen.

Most of the time, he finds himself in front of Summer’s memorial. It’s not really comforting or anything, and he’s convinced that the clouds are going to throw a bolt of lightning at the stone someday, considering there isn’t much else around for his Semblance to influence.

But he misses her. And this stone is all there is, now.

“I get it,” he mutters, tossing back three pills and rushing them down with a swig from his flask. “Of course I’d do the same, and yeah, he’s a grown person making his own grown-person decisions—but that’s not the point. The point is that he wouldn’t have to make those particular ones if I was better at making my own. He’s got plenty of people out for his head. He doesn’t need mine, too.”

The breeze picks up and gusts through his hair, touseling it. He nods like it’s some kind of response.

“Why can’t I have it as easy as you did? I, too, wish I could just accidentally spew some flowers into his cereal—”

His scroll rings with a new message. He opens it, thinking it’s Tai adding to the grocery list.

_ Are you all right? _

Qrow stares. It’s pretty direct, considering it’s Ozpin, but also cryptic, because Qrow doesn’t understand what he means at all.

_ Doin fine, whats up _

He gets antsy waiting for the reply. When it does come almost ten minutes later, Qrow balks.

_ It’s Saturday. _

It’s been three years since Qrow started Operation: Get Fresh Air, and he’s always kept to the schedule. He’s never been late, never had to take a raincheck, and never forgotten.

_ I’m glad you’re fine. _

Qrow winces, typing quickly. _I’ll bring something_

_ You’re busy. _

It will take him five minutes tops to grab Tai’s groceries and another three minutes to fling them through the window. _I’ll bring cake_ , he sends back, getting to his feet. He hopes Ozpin recognizes the ‘I am apologizing via gross indulgence of your sweet tooth.’

Two minutes later, the ping comes just as Qrow is preparing to call.

_ What kind of cake? _

—

“I didn’t know the restaurant sells the mousse in this size,” Ozpin says, staring down at the box that is as wide as his coffee table.

“It’s a special occasion thing.”

“I see. You really weren’t busy, then?” His eyebrow is raised in skepticism even as he goes to pour tea.

Ozpin owns exactly the amount of dishware and utensils necessary for one person. Qrow’s fine with the bowl, but can’t decide between the spoon or the chopsticks. “Yeah, sorry. Just—have a lot on my mind lately.” He has to admit that much. Ozpin won’t believe anything else, anyway.

“Family?”

Qrow considers it, watching Ozpin cut into the mousse with a butcher knife. “Kinda, yeah. Aren’t you gonna ask how much this thing was?” Or how he was able to convince the restaurant manager to sell him the whole square of it? Not that she’d needed much convincing. Turns out being semi-regulars means he and Oz have accidentally induced emotional investment in the staff.

“No,” Ozpin says slowly, sliding a large portion into Qrow’s bowl. “I think that is something you’ll need to suffer on your own. My health is too fragile for such things.”

“Cheapskate,” but it’s affectionate. “You all healed up?”

“I believe so,” Ozpin says, a little dry. “It’s been a month.”

“Was a big knife.”

“I’m aware.”

“Went deep.”

“Went through.”

Qrow jabs the chopsticks a little too hard against the plate. He’s aware of Ozpin’s stare.

“May I ask you something you won’t like?”

“Shoot,” Qrow grumbles, mashing the mousse.

“Will you always be like this when I’m hurt?”

Qrow freezes, heart immediately in his throat.

“You always become distant,” Ozpin says softly, unaware of Qrow’s sudden wish to be absorbed into the couch. “And you won’t return for weeks. Do you remember that mission to the Wyrmwood a few years ago, with the purported five-hundred-year-old Beowolf? The hive of Stingers in the Gray Jungle before that? Five months ago, at the mine in—”

Nope, okay, that’s not his heart. “What are you even talking about?” Qrow pats his pockets, but it’s a desperate gesture. He already knows they’re empty. The _memorial_. “I leave sometimes, so what? It’s what I do.”

“It’s what you do when I become injured on your account. Or what you believe to be your account.”

Qrow swallows against the pressure in his chest. “What I _believe_? That Beowolf nearly took off your leg because I was too slow. You were unconscious for weeks from the Stinger poison because _I was too slow._ And that fucking mine— _you jumped on me_ —”

He still feels uneasy sleeping in complete darkness. Sometimes, if he lets his mind wander too far and fill in the silence, it feels like he’s still down there, dust in his mouth, knowing the rocks are only a few feet from closing on him. He’ll always remember the sound of pained breathing against his ear, and the feeling of Ozpin’s limp hand in his own.

“And this time you walked right into it—”

“I forgot to activate my aura,” Ozpin says. “That was my fault.”

“You don’t get it.”

“Am I supposed to apologize for saving you—”

_“You shouldn’t have to save me.”_

Ozpin’s gaze softens. “Qrow.”

“I should be able to look after myself.”

“You can’t know everything. Sometimes there will be mistakes.”

That’s usually his line. It feels a little unfair to have it thrown back at him like this. “And I have something that makes it way easier to fuck up than most. It’s not—look. I’m selfish. Always have been, you know that. Danger is the nature of the job. It’s what we do, blah blah. But there’s a difference between you getting hurt because you get hurt, and you getting hurt because of my fuck up. That’s on me.”

“It isn’t.”

“Is.”

Ozpin runs a hand through his hair. “I feel as though you’re not really giving me enough credit here. I could, in that split second, have ignored the glint of that knife and allowed you to walk into it. Just as I could have allowed that Beowolf to _actually take your leg_ and that cave-in to crush you. But I made my choices, and I regret none of them. You can only take responsibility for what _you_ do. What _I_ do in response, and the consequences thereof, are all my own.”

It’s not any one thing. It’s all of it, together. His soft words; his voice, tempered with sympathy and knowing; his eyes like liquid gold in the warm lamplight. It’s his attention, firm and patient.

And it’s also because the pills finally wear off.

Qrow coughs heavily, choking on the white petals spilling from his lips into his hands.

—

It’s the longest ten minutes of Qrow’s life.

Ozpin rushes around, grabbing tea and his own bottle of pills— _bite half, they’re strong_ —and by the time Qrow’s lungs finally stop their floral assault, he’s lying back against Ozpin’s cushions, exhausted and mortified.

“How about we just ignore what happened?” Qrow says hopefully. He refuses to remove his arm from his face. If he can’t see Ozpin, then Ozpin can’t see what remains of his last shred of dignity.

“How long?” Ozpin’s voice sounds strangely brittle.

Fuck, they’re really doing this. Fine, if he has to, then— “The flowers? Exactly a month.” Qrow fiddles with his hair. “I think they’ve been trying to happen for a while, though. Thought it was heartburn. Acid reflux.”

“A while?”

“You’re not getting an exact number.”

“Qrow.”

“What do you want from me? You think I just got up one day and was like ‘hey, I have it seriously bad for my boss, I should make note of the date in case it comes in handy someday?’” How’s he supposed to measure something that’s been so gradual he didn’t realize it came so far? It’s like he’s been collecting shells at the beach. He’s got a bucket in hand, and he’s so focused on picking up new shells that he hasn’t noticed how much the bucket’s been filled. “It’s been a long time, Oz. Leave it at that.”

“But the flowers only started recently?”

“I’m really good at lying to myself.” He swallows hard. “Look, if you want me gone, I’ll go. But if you don’t, then nothing has to change. It’s not like I don’t get it. You’re you, and I’m— _way_ too much me. I can get more pills, and we never have to speak of this again.”

The reply comes delayed. “What if it gets worse?”

Qrow scoffs, ignoring the persistent ache in his throat. How’s it supposed to get worse, anyway? His heart is already full of thorns. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The silence sits a long time. It makes Qrow anxious, enough that he eventually stands. But he can’t bring himself to look at Ozpin.

“I’m sorry. Please understand,” Ozpin says in that same brittle tone. “It’s not you at all. But things with me are—complicated.”

“Things with you are always complicated,” Qrow says with a soft laugh, heading for the door. As he opens it, he pauses, tapping a finger against the knob. “Maybe do yourself a favor, though? Whoever it is _you’re_ spewing flowers for? Consider telling them. They’ll be lucky.”

Qrow leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

—

Something does change.

Ozpin is genial. Too genial. It reminds Qrow of the old days, when neither was certain about the other—hell, even when Qrow _was_ certain about him, Oz had needed more time. Qrow recognizes this careful mask, and he doesn’t know what to do this time around. They’ve reset further back than he intended. There’s a sort of stiffness in their conversations that hasn’t been there for years, a distance that has lost its bridge. He doesn’t even know how they built one at all. It just kind of happened, between space shared and jibes exchanged.

It’s too much for Qrow, so he’s taking assignments as soon as he returns from the last one. He doesn’t have to think if he’s too busy tracking some asshole or whacking through Grimm. He can tell Ozpin isn’t exactly thrilled despite the efficiency; there’s always a kind of tepid hesitation before he gives Qrow a mission, and when Qrow mentions the ones he takes from the board, Ozpin always looks like he wants to say _something_. 

Qrow can’t really imagine what it is. He’s not sure they really have much to say to each other, now.

He was stupid to think they could have gone back to status quo. How’re they supposed to go back to clandestine Saturday lunches when Qrow’s gone and confessed via lung bouquet?

And Ozpin apologized, like _he_ did something wrong. Like he’d ruined the most comfortable thing Qrow had going.

He’s never been as ambitious as Raven. Of course they shared much of the same; they survived together, and believed in having power. But Qrow has his limits. Power over enough is—enough. All he needs is whatever he can get, and as long as he has that, he can make other paths. Raven, however, can never have enough. She always has something to prove. The chip in her shoulder has always been pretty big, but she’s been pecking at it, too.

He might have been the same, once.

_You should ask yourself what it is you want, Qrow. It may be a question you’ll be able to answer in a few years. Maybe you’ll spend your whole life trying. But it’s something to consider in everything you do._

_Sure, ‘cause_ that _matters._

_More than you realize._

_Well, if we’re going into this deep stuff, what do_ you _want?_

_Me? Well. I suppose I want—something quite impossible._

Maybe Qrow kind of understands him because he understands Raven. Wanting impossible things. Control, for a little peace of mind.

It’s why he started on these Saturdays. To prove to Ozpin that taking a little break isn’t going to destroy the world. To give him something small to look forward to—to _want._

Qrow just didn’t realize it was what _he_ wanted until it was too late.

—

On Qrow’s convoluted, jerry-rigged scale, Ozpin’s insistence on continuing to take missions despite having a full-time job with a decent pension and unlimited cheap coffee ranks somewhere between _‘excuse me what’_ and _‘do you ever sleep’_. Just because he has disgustingly amazing medical benefits doesn’t mean he has to use them every couple of months.

Worse still is when he takes missions without having Qrow around to potentially bail his ass out. No matter how Qrow feels about working with other people, especially in relation to his fuck-you-all Semblance, two is always better than one. He recognizes that it’s mostly an unfounded fear. Ozpin is good at what he does; at the age he took on the headmaster gig, he wouldn’t have gotten it based on any administrative merits. Still, it’s the ‘ _mostly’_ that gets to Qrow.

And this time, the margin of error apparently won out again.

“What do you mean it _reopened_?” Qrow says, fumbling on his clothes with one hand while he tries to keep his scroll against his ear with the other. “It’s been almost two months. It should’ve healed by now.”

On the other end of the line, Glynda grunts in agreement. “That’s what I thought. But _someone_ neglected to mention that the knife was poisoned. He’s been healing especially slowly while working through it. And the mission he took turned out to be more strenuous than initially described.”

Qrow stops, one pant leg halfway up his thigh. “Poison?”

“So you didn’t know,” Glynda mutters.

“ _No_. Like he’d say anything—”

_You always become distant, and you won’t return for weeks._

Fuck.

Qrow gives up on his pants and falls back onto his bed. Wearily, he places Glynda on speaker and puts his hands over his face.

“He’s fine,” Glynda says, and she should have led with that, really. “He’s being allowed to rest at home. But he’s refusing company.”

Qrow shrugs, even knowing Glynda can’t see him. “He can do that. I wouldn’t want anyone hovering around me either if a hole in my gut reopened.”

“I don’t think he’ll refuse _all_ company.”

He’s always meant to paint over the ancient water stains on his ceiling, but it would be so much _effort_. “What makes you think he’ll want me there?”

The reply isn’t immediate. When it comes, her voice is softer than it usually is. “You’re both more similar than you think.”

He continues to lie there even after the line clicks off.

—

A long time ago, when Qrow was still getting used to having wings and a bird brain designed to instinctively calculate shit like wind speed and trajectory, he torpedoed into many windows. One of these windows was the one in Ozpin’s living room. Ozpin, for his part, was only a little irritated about the glass shards, and Qrow did fix it. In a way. The glass pane functions as a window should—if left closed forever.

Ozpin could have gotten it fixed properly at any time since, but he’s always joking that he leaves it the way it is to shame Qrow.

Qrow’s glad he left it. Short of shooting the scroll reader at the door, it’s his only viable point of entry.

It’s quiet in the apartment. There’s a faint smell of chocolate in the air—he was probably making hot cocoa. Qrow goes to the closed bedroom door and hesitates a moment before knocking. He winces; it seems too loud.

“Oz? You in there?”

“No,” says Ozpin, quiet and hoarse.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“I mind very much, but somehow I doubt that will stop you.”

“Well, I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna kick your door down. Unless you’re dying.” Qrow pauses, brain unwillingly running wild. “ _Are_ you dying?”

A strained laugh. “I hope not.” Qrow hears rustling. “The door isn’t locked.”

It’s not really an invitation, but Qrow opens the door anyway. He’s only seen Ozpin’s bedroom a handful of times, usually when he was too drunk for Oz to send back out into the world. It never seems to change. Same old green sheets, the redwood dresser with the dent, walnut bookshelf in the corner—even the same pile of books on the faded plush armchair. He wonders if they’re there because Ozpin intends to read them someday, or because he’s always reading them.

He finds the inert lump that is Ozpin under the small pile of blankets. His breathing is shallow, and his eyes are glazed. Qrow kneels beside the bed and puts the back of his hand against Ozpin’s forehead, immediately wincing at the heat.

“When did you return from Vacuo?” Ozpin says, voice broken and rough.

“This morning.” Qrow takes Ozpin’s retracted cane and, finding it sufficiently cool, holds it to Ozpin’s forehead. Ozpin gives him a look that could be disapproving, but it’s somewhat dampened by the hazy squinting. “I was sleeping when I got a call from Glynda.”

“She told you, then?” 

“Yeah.”

Ozpin nods, closing his eyes as Qrow rolls the cane over searing skin. “Vigilance, Qrow. Never know when a simple escort assignment will suddenly turn ridiculous.”

Escort? There’s no way Glynda would let Oz risk exposure for something that menial, even if Oz _were_ inclined. “A Maiden?”

“Her nephew, actually. No, he has no idea who I am. He thought I was a huntsman hired by his aunt, which is not far from the truth. Fria was under the impression that he simply needed a safe path to Argus. The climate north of Mistral does not agree with Leo’s constitution, and it would have stood out a little if he’d made a request to any of his own, so I agreed to do it as a favor.” Ozpin smiles thinly. “I wanted the fresh air.”

“So you were attacked? Somebody _knew_ —”

An unsteady, dismissive hand waves close to Qrow’s nose, nearly smacking it. “No, nothing like that. It seems Fria’s nephew owes quite a bit of money to several people he shouldn’t have owed. I’m afraid my alias might have made an enemy of Miss Malachite specifically, which is unfortunate, as she and I used to get on rather well before she took over her current business and I became the head paperpusher of a school. Now, it appears I’ll have to kill that alias—”

“ _What happened_?”

“Qrow, honestly, there’s no great story here—”

“Oz. Please.”

Ozpin opens his eyes at this, sickly bright with surprise. Qrow meets them, determined. Sometimes, Ozpin can be as bad as _he_ is about details. Qrow gets it, but this is also why—sometimes he needs to be pushed, too.

The silence feels ready to snap, but eventually Ozpin nods, his expression growing pained.

“It opened when I—er—backflipped.”

Qrow stares. “You _what_.”

He swears the noise that comes from Ozpin must be his version of a whine. “I was, as Glynda put it, too _fancy_. I backflipped, and reopened the knife wound—a wound I thought had mostly healed but was, in fact, only plotting its betrayal all this time. The poison apparently had more of an effect than I originally surmised.” Ozpin’s shrug is minute. “Like I said. No great story, only unending farce.”

Except there’s lots of it missing. Ozpin is too pale. His lips are bloodless, almost blue, and the shadows around his eyes stand out like bruises. His difficult breathing isn’t only from the fever.

Qrow doesn’t need Ozpin to tell him he carried on the rest of the way to Argus, and that he probably insisted on being flown back despite Argus having a hospital. He knows Ozpin left Vale General as soon as Glynda gave her grudging assent, and that he’s been keeping himself here ever since, alone. He knows because it’s what Ozpin _does._ Hide his weaknesses, pretend it’s no great story—

Qrow coughs lightly. A few petals still fall out. He catches them, but not before Ozpin sees.

“The pills do work,” Qrow says, wry. “But sometimes you give me more Emotions than usual, and right now, none of them are all that fuzzy.”

Ozpin blinks curiously. “Are they ever fuzzy?”

Qrow swallows down another set of petals. Fuck, he’s missed him.

“Would you have told me that asshole gutted you with poison? If I hadn’t run off?”

“No,” Ozpin says immediately, and wow, _that_ doesn’t hurt at all. “You would have stayed away longer.”

 _That_ —is totally true, yeah, Qrow has nothing.

“It really isn’t fair you know me this well considering all I know about you is how fucking annoying you are.”

Ozpin smiles, soft with exhaustion.

Feeling the tell-tale pressure in his chest, Qrow makes excuses about grabbing a cold towel and spends the next fifteen minutes heaving fully bloomed bulbs into the kitchen sink.

—

They talk long into the afternoon. About Qrow’s travels, about Fria’s nephew—they even dip a little into Ozpin’s misspent youth running around with the protege of an underground information broker.

But mostly, it’s just this: Qrow has missed Ozpin’s company so much he’s been feeling it physically, and even if Ozpin is half delirious on whatever painkillers he’s been scarfing down, he’ll take what he can get.

—

Qrow jolts awake to the sound of clattering.

He wipes his eyes and blinks, adjusting to the darkened bedroom. For a moment, he’s so focused on the feeling of blood rushing back into his legs that he realizes too late that Ozpin isn’t in bed. He fumbles for the light on the nightstand.

“Oz?”

There’s no reply. Qrow starts crawling slowly across the floor, legs weak with the persistent sting of a thousand invisible needles. He’s halfway out of the room when a noise like a dying weasel suddenly cuts through the air.

Qrow turns, eying the bathroom door. He didn’t think anything of it before, because he hadn’t seen any light from the gap underneath. “Oz?”

“Did I wake you?” Ozpin says from beyond it, voice alarmingly faint.

“Not really. Did you drop something in there?”

“A comb.”

“ _You_ own one?”

“Under normal circumstances, I would be very—”

He’s cut off by his own heavy coughing.

Qrow wobbles on his hands and knees to the bathroom door. “Oz?”

The fit lasts a while, and it sounds painful. When it finally stops, the silence rings, broken only by the sounds of labored breathing.

“Open the door, Oz.”

“It’s fine. I—” He coughs again, lighter this time. “It wouldn’t be like this, but apparently pain medication and suppression pills can’t be mixed.”

Qrow tries the knob, already knowing it won’t budge. “Then what have you been doing all this time?”

“Taking turns. It’s fine to have some overlap, but—I didn’t expect to see anyone today.”

“Okay, hold on,” Qrow says, trying to stand, but his feet don’t have enough blood for it yet. “Which one do you want me to—”

“Qrow.” Ozpin’s voice is wispy. “I’m sorry, but would you please leave?”

Qrow lets the silence sit for a bit, hoping it seeps some sense into him but not really holding out any hope. “Is this one of those things where I should pretend I didn’t hear you right?”

“I don’t want you to see this.”

“See what?”

_“Me.”_

The quiet desperation rings hard with Qrow, causing him to cough a few petals. “I’ve seen you in plenty of awful ways,” he says, not understanding. “You’ve seen _me_ in _all_ of my awful ways.”

“It’s not the same. This—it isn’t something you will want to see.”

“You make it sound like I _ever want_ to see you rigged up in a hospital—”

_“Please.”_

Qrow drops his head against the door, hard, but he doesn’t even notice the pain. “I wanna help.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re always helping _me_.” But no, that’s not it. Not exactly. “Because you’re always there. And I want to be there, too. I want to—” He sighs, pushing a fist against the door. “If we were switched around and it was me who’d backflipped open a gut wound and then hid in my bathroom for a weird, secret reason, you would have broken the doorknob by now.”

Ozpin laughs. “Property damage? I’m not sure.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure I’m about to punch off yours—”

“ _Fine_ , fine, wait—”

As soon as Qrow hears the lock click, he opens the door—and in the true fashion of his existence, the tile proves too slippery for his knees for _some reason_ , and he hurtles forward, fumbling into Ozpin, who was also crawling on the floor. Qrow falls into him, quickly bracing himself with one hand beside Ozpin’s head and the other against his chest—

“Ow,” Ozpin deadpans, but there’s sweat beading his forehead.

Qrow realizes he’s probably crushing his stomach. “Sorry, shitshit—” Qrow shifts off quickly, wincing as his head bangs into the sink cupboard.

“Perhaps it would be best if we stopped moving for a moment,” Ozpin mutters.

So they do, lying next to each other on the cold tile. But Qrow is soon wiggling, reaching for something prickly digging into his arm. He holds the small—bushel?—up to the weak light from the bedroom.

“A plant?” He sits up, turning it in the faint glow. “Mistletoe?”

Ozpin gingerly lifts himself to a sitting position. He nods.

Now that Qrow’s eyes have adjusted, he can see it all over the floor. In pieces, in sprigs, in bundles half the size of a fist. Some of them are as green as if they were freshly pulled, a number of them sprouting white berries. Most, though, appear withered or browned—some are even heavy with rot.

But there are also flower petals among the mess, in a myriad of shapes and colors, though red seems most prominent. He recognizes some of them as rose petals, but the rest elude him. He watches as some of the petals begin to fade in faint glimmers of light, the aura that shaped them finally breaking down.

Ozpin rubs a petal between his fingers, breaking it into light, and Qrow gets it now.

“I didn’t know mistletoe was a flower.”

“It’s not.” Ozpin leans his head against the edge of the tub with a bone-deep sigh. “It’s a parasitic plant that grows on a number of trees.”

“Yeah, I know that, Raven and I used to shoot these off to sell at the markets. But I meant, is it flower-like enough for uh—the _blegh_ -ing?”

“I suppose that might depend on whether you would consider Salem still human enough to _blegh_ for. The universe seems to think so. Flower-adjacent, perhaps, in the same way she may be human-adjacent?” 

Qrow did not wake up this morning thinking he’d have to navigate the most confusing conversational minefield ever.

“Don’t mistake this for love,” Ozpin says quietly, staring blankly at the ceiling. “It’s—” His eyes flicker, searching.

“Trauma,” Qrow fills in, and Ozpin clearly hesitates before he nods stiffly.

He doesn’t know the details, but he knows how Salem operates, and he’s seen Ozpin close off a couple of times whenever a job obviously had more of her direct influence. Qrow’s really hazy about the whole curse thing; it’s a convoluted mashup of every existential crisis under the sun. What he does get— _sort of_ —is that Ozpin is in a constant state of being both more _and_ less than his own person. The things that have passed to him are his as much as they’re not.

It just never occurred to Qrow that this specific connection would have passed down, too, because _what the actual fuck_.

“How’s this even a thing?”

“I don’t pretend to understand it. It’s been happening since my—the second reincarnation.”

“So all these petals...?”

Ozpin nods. “They’re from previous incarnations. At its heart, hanahaki is a sickness of longing. Parts of them exist in me, enough that whatever rules govern this effect must consider them alive enough to continue on.”

He has to know. “So does part of you _long_ for Salem?”

It must have been expected, because Ozpin merely blinks. “No. There are many kinds of longing. Longing because of distance. Because of grief. A longing for what could have been—or for an end. This thing with Salem began as a warped sort of grief and became chronic with longevity.” He lifts a dried piece of mistletoe from the floor. “Salem is the reason for my existence. I am what I have to be because of every mistake I made regarding her. What I long for isn’t her, but it is tied with her.”

“Wanting the impossible,” Qrow mutters, watching the withered thing in Ozpin’s hand dissipate into black flecks of corrupted aura, like ash in the wind.

“Quite.”

“I’ve known for ages that you’ve been taking pills,” Qrow says sheepishly. “I thought you were—uh—just reluctant to try with whoever it was, not— _this_ whole melodramatic thing.”

Ozpin laughs, dry. “Ages?”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I like to think I am very subtle. Glynda wasn’t aware of the pills until yesterday, when she saw them on my nightstand.”

“Maybe I’m just more aware of you,” Qrow says, and wow, could his brain-mouth filter not have filtered that? “That’s not supposed to sound that creepy, I swear.”

“You do apparently have occasionally fuzzy emotions for me.”

Little shit. “If you laugh, I’ll lock you in here.”

“This door locks from the inside. And I assure you, I’m not laughing.” He isn’t. If anything, he looks weirdly solemn for a dude that’s been staring at nothing for the last ten minutes. “Your initial guess still has merit. I’ve had this condition since I inherited, but in more recent years, it has grown—worse, I suppose.” 

It takes a minute for it to click. “There _has_ been someone?” Qrow isn’t sure if he’s more interested or annoyed. “Who?”

“I’m not certain you would want to know.”

He’s intrigued despite himself. Nosiness wins out. “Glynda?”

“No.”

“Port?”

“Bart would kill me.”

“Theodore?”

“Theodore would kill me.”

“I don’t think I even want to know if it’s Leo or Jimmy.”

“Then you’ll be glad to know it’s neither.”

“The baker you get your favorite scones from?”

Ozpin laughs, bracing a hand against his injury. _“Why?”_

“Stomach to heart. I’ve seen how fast you go through those scones.” Qrow likes to time him, for science. “Also, if we’re going off people I know you know, your list of possibilities is super short.”

Ozpin lifts his head just as the last of the mistletoe fades. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

There’s no way Qrow doesn’t understand that. But if it’s true, if Ozpin means it, then _that_ means— “I really would prefer to believe you wouldn’t keep it from me after I threw up flowers at you,” he says, feeling a sort of numbness creep into the back of his mind. “Otherwise, you’re an asshole.”

Ozpin nods. “That’s fair. I’m an asshole.”

Right. Okay.

Qrow starts to stand, but before he makes it on his knees, Ozpin has a hand on his arm. Qrow freezes.

“Please.”

He’s shaking. Qrow swallows down the ache and petals, and sits back down. He should be going. Ozpin has just been watching him fumble around like an idiot, and Qrow knows he has his reasons, but how’s he supposed to be okay with that?

But he can’t leave, either. Not when Ozpin is reaching for him. He’s too weak.

“You should’ve told me,” Qrow says with difficulty.

“Yes. But I was afraid.”

Qrow shakes his head. “Of what? Rejection? ‘Cuz nothing says no like a mouthful of flowers?”

“Your assessment of me was right,” Ozpin says, ignoring him. “I was reluctant—”

“Lemme guess, you were trying to protect me? Nevermind I’ve had this job for a while and have had extensive experience against the many minions of your immortal enemy—”

“Qrow—”

“Or maybe you thought I’d be freaked out about the Salem thing? I am, but not in a dumb way, it’s not like it’s _your_ fault—”

“But that’s part of it,” Ozpin says, agitated. “ _My_ fault.”

“It isn’t—”

“In a way, it is. Partly. Wholly. There’s no clear cut answer.” He takes his hand away, and Qrow feels very cold all of a sudden. “It’s something you’re always wondering,” he says gently. “How much of me _is_ me, how much is recycled from the mass of traits and personalities.”

He can’t deny that, but he has a feeling that there’s some kind of disconnect here. “You’re both.”

“Yes. Before I knew of your—predicament—I was reluctant because what I am is relative. After, I was afraid to tell you for the same reason. Because hanahaki is all about specificity. How do you know that what you’re looking for really exists in the way you think it does?”

Qrow stares as a headache begins threatening his skull. “What, you think I don’t know what I’m looking for because you have the weirdest soup for a soul?”

“This phenomenon is geared toward a person. I’m people.”

“ _And_ you’re a person. I know already, it’s complicated.”

“And you would have been fine with this?”

“I’m fine with it _now_ ,” Qrow says, vehement and close to going stupid with confusion. “I’m not gonna pretend I understand what it means for you exactly to be a hundred-in-one, but it’s almost like _you’re_ not even sure of who you are.”

Ozpin leans back, expression closing off, and— _oh_.

Oh great. What’s he fucking done—

Qrow reaches for him with no thought and all panic—and takes his hand. Ozpin looks down slowly, blinking like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, which is fair, since Qrow can’t believe it either.

In all the ways Qrow has imagined some _moment_ between them—and he’s had time, missions are usually about fifty percent travel and twenty percent stakeout—he’s always defaulted to kissing. It’s a good default, especially since Qrow’s mouth is way better at it than words. Qrow has always done meaning in action, in touch.

He’s never been much of a hopeful romantic, but he does know that there are some things words can’t convey. And if he had to distill the last couple of years with Ozpin into a thirty-second moment, there would be no words at all.

But obviously that was all before _this_ moment. Turns out he was an idiot moving way too fast for himself, because he’s never once thought about how absolutely fucking terrifying it would be just to _hold hands_.

Well. _He’s_ doing the holding. Ozpin is just—awfully still.

“I know who I am,” Ozpin eventually says, brittle. He doesn’t sound the least bit convincing. “But I don’t think that my assurance of that would be enough proof to you. Or that it should be, when there is no way for you to know for certain.”

“Oz, do you know why my feelings manifest as little white flowers?”

Ozpin shakes his head.

“Great. Me neither. No idea, and no idea what kind of flower they are. But see, that _doesn’t matter_. I could be coughing up roses or dandelions—which I’m glad I’m not, because the little puff things would suck—and it wouldn’t change _why_ I’m coughing them up. Because it’s not the flowers I’m hung up on.” Qrow squeezes, willing reassurance. “I know you’re complicated. That’s the thing, though. _I know_. So, I’m pretty sure that who I’m, uh, _longing_ for really exists in the way I think you do. And right now you’re existing in a way that makes my head hurt super badly. Philosophy is too hard sober, man. I expect to be compensated for this with that nice malt you’re hiding in the cereal box.”

Ozpin cracks a smile, squeezing back lightly. It’s a start.

“Okay, so since this is some kinda scary truth hour, I’ll go next,” Qrow grumbles, stroking his thumb over the back of Ozpin’s hand. “At first, I never said anything because games of chance don’t work out with me. And even when it started looking like it could be a thing, I just—I didn’t want an excuse to potentially ruin what was already good.” He gives Ozpin a lopsided grin. “My track record with ruining things is impeccable.”

“I think I would give you a run for your money.”

“Nah, you—you’ve _given_ me a lot of the stuff in my life now that I could ruin.” It’s a cold realization. “Including you.”

Ozpin’s surprise is only there for a split-second, but Qrow knows what to look for. “I think this is where I should tell you not to flatter yourself,” he says lightly. “That risk is inherent in every connection made.”

“Which is why you don’t make many.”

“The same could be said for you,” Ozpin says not unkindly. “Distance as protection, for all parties.”

It’s not an accusation, but a sort of mixture of wry self-awareness and vague concern, and Qrow almost laughs. Of course Glynda was right.

“You said before that whoever I happened to be—er— _blegh-ing_ for would be lucky.” Ozpin is looking down at their hands. “Do you still feel that way?”

He’s not really sure how he feels—but he does know what he wants. He gets on his knees, closes the space between them, and cups Ozpin’s cheek with his free hand. Ozpin’s eyes are bright and searching as he looks up at Qrow, and Qrow gets it. He isn’t sure Ozpin will ever come to a point where he’ll feel secure enough to stop searching—Qrow isn’t even certain he’ll ever be used to this himself.

Something else to potentially ruin. But he also has a chance to get it right.

The kiss is shaky. A little breathless, a little desperate. He feels Ozpin’s other hand on the back of his head, fingers winding in his hair, and Qrow does the same, closing his hand through soft strands. Qrow edges over until they’re pressed together, and it’s not like anything he’s imagined. These careful, melancholic touches, and their hands, fingers curled tight together, as if this were an ending. It probably is the end of something, in a way.

It’s fine. They’ve earned another beginning.

“No,” Qrow says, breaking off against the corner of Ozpin’s lips. He settles against him, mindful of Ozpin’s injury. ‘Cause you’re still an annoying asshole.”

“Projection,” Ozpin says, laughing softly as Qrow sputters. “By the way, you may want to know that those small white flowers are pear blossoms.”

“Cool. Mean anything?”

“I have no idea.”

Qrow kisses him again, and this time it’s steadier.

“Good.”

—

— 

—

“I’ve been thinking. If what you said about being tied with Salem is true, then maybe it works the other way around too? Maybe she’s got something flower-adjacent. Like brussel sprouts.”

“Please, Qrow,” Ozpin says, but Qrow can hear the laugh in his voice. “Salem and brussel sprouts mentioned on the same day? I am still recovering, you know.”

“That right?” Qrow turns to him, affecting his most innocent look. “Well, we _could_ take a rain check on the mousse—”

“Don’t you dare,” Ozpin says with a geniality that suggests a willingness to maim. “It’s the most important factor to my recovery—”

“Chocolate doesn’t heal.”

“Not with that attitude—”

Qrow takes advantage of their held hands and pulls Ozpin in for a quick press on the cheek. Ozpin’s incredibly easy tendency to blush betrays him immediately, but his face remains remarkably impassive otherwise. Qrow laughs, pulling ahead as they draw nearer the restaurant. He squeezes Ozpin’s hand to—well.

Just because he can. Because he wants to.

That’s the devious thing about accumulation. This is how they’ve filled their bucket; with little gestures, little desires, all shared and given. A beach—a life—of small possibilities.

They can do plenty with that.

“How is it lately?”

Qrow looks over his shoulder, confused. “How’s what?”

“Your—er—” Ozpin makes gestures. It takes Qrow a moment to realize he means the flowers.

“You’d be shit at charades, you know that?”

_“Qrow.”_

Qrow stops. “It’s still there. Never goes away, right? But it’s not like I’m filling baskets, if that’s what you mean.”

“I see. Is it still painful?”

Briefly, Qrow debates the merit of lying—after the whole thing in his bathroom, Qrow sort of scared him by coughing up enough to fill a third of the tub. Ozpin frets like no one Qrow has ever known, and though he felt stupidly nice with Ozpin bringing him spiked hot chocolate and pancakes, he hopes there won’t be a repeat performance. “Not too much,” he says, settling. It’s true enough. “What about you?”

Ozpin looks surprised, like he didn’t expect Qrow to ask. “It’s—”

“Don’t lie.” He only feels marginally guilty.

“I wasn’t going to,” he says wryly. “Mine is rather different from most people’s, as you know, so it’s—difficult to change.”

Difficult is one way to put it. “Is there a reason you never just—took the last step?” He’s always wondered. Especially if Ozpin was reluctant to pursue anything, wouldn’t it have made sense to remove the temptation? “Not that I’d want you to consider it _now_ —”

Ozpin squeezes Qrow’s hand in reassurance. “Some of my previous incarnations have had the procedure done. I never felt similarly inclined.” He looks to the side, not upset, but—wistful, maybe. “It’s perhaps irrational, but I didn’t want to lose any part of me, especially something so important to an identity. The effect really _is_ liberating. When it has been done, you don’t know anything else. But I remember how it feels. How muted things were.” He turns back to Qrow, expression honest in a way that Qrow has rarely ever seen. “I’m very glad I was stubborn.”

Qrow is too. He swallows, but he can still feel the petals tickling his throat. “You sure there isn’t anything else you can do?”

“The wonders of modern medicine have done plenty. Before the pills, however—those were dark times indeed.”

“I heard people swallowed raw duck livers and slept with slices of onion on their eyes.”

“I think the onions worked because one would be too busy tearing up. But no, it could get worse.” He makes a face. “When the best natural remedy happens to be the bane of your taste buds, you have no choice but to accept that the universe has a cruel sense of humor. Usually, I would say I wouldn’t wish brussel sprouts upon my worst enemy, but I realize now that I very much do.”

 _Thousands_ of years. Qrow can’t even stand Tai’s beet salad for a single meal.

“Fine, I’ll see if I can convince the manager to sell me another slab of mousse,” Qrow sighs, pulling Ozpin along again. “If this is a ploy to make me feel sorry for you, it’s working pretty damn well, and when we get home you gotta teach me your ways.”

They’re not ten feet from the restaurant when he has to slip into the closest alley and cough out petals into a convenient trash can. It’s not particularly painful, but it’s still annoying as fuck. He pats Ozpin’s arm lightly, to reassure him that he’s not about to asphyxiate.

“Strong fuzzy feelings?” Ozpin says casually.

Qrow kicks him in the shoe. “I hope the mud _sticks_ ,” Qrow hisses, still kicking.

Ozpin’s quiet laughter doesn’t make anything easier for him, and the soothing circles he rubs against Qrow’s back add probably an extra five minutes’ worth of flowers.

But he doesn’t mind. Not much.

-


End file.
